Ode To A Ginger
by TheOneWithTheObsessions
Summary: They say her hair is like flames. He thinks that they are mistaken. She is more like the gentle warmth of sunlight through autumn leaves. The Doctor and Rory dream of their Amelia. Twoshot. Unbeta'd.
1. Doctor

A/N: So yeah, Karen's hair is becoming an issue. Or an inspiration. I'm going with it. Enjoy and review. I don't own Doctor Who.

**_Doctor:_**

Some people call her fiery. They say she has hair like flames. He thinks that they are wrong. Or at least not always right. She _can_ burn hot like fire – usually with anger or fierce protectiveness – but mostly she is like cinnamon; warm and spicy on the tongue. Or perhaps like sunlight, drifting through the autumn leaves that rustle in the gentle breeze.

She is fleeting. And like the leaves, she has a delicate strength. She carries an air of sadness around her, a weight on her shoulders that he cannot lift despite his trying.

(When the sunlight passes, the bright bouquet of reds and oranges mutate into faded brown tatters that crumble underfoot. The trees are left bare.)

He does not want her to fade away and become empty. But she will. They all do.

She cannot remain vibrant and alive forever. Time Lord he may be, but even he must obey the natural order of the universe. All things have their time and everything dies. He hopes leaving her when she is still warm will allow her to continue breathing for a long time (by human standards).

He hopes her colours will never deteriorate, that she will always be a shining beacon of joy.

Even if she doesn't, he will remember her that way. Bright, alive and smiling.

(Not blood red spilled across hard ground on the edge of burning fields of silver grass with the screams of the dying ringing in bleeding ears and resounding in his pounding _pounding_ head.)

Flames always were bad. Spices and sunlight have much better smell-taste-touch memories.

He doesn't like people calling her fiery. It's insulting, and wrong. They don't know her at all.


	2. Rory

A/N: Still don't own Doctor Who. Not sure where this one came from just sorta came out when I sat to write. Huh. Still gonna go with it. Thoughts much appreciated.

**_Rory:_**

In the universe where the stars have never existed, a plastic man guards a magic box.

It sounds like the beginning of a bad bedtime story. Something that you'd tell a stubborn child when they refuse to go to bed. Guess what, it's so much better than that. Because this actually happened.

The plastic man was once a person like you and me (maybe you've seen him walking around, struggling with his bags from Tesco) until one day he got sucked into a crack at the end of the universe. And then, he woke up as a Roman.

Not just any old Roman, but a Centurion.

A plastic Centurion with a gun hidden inside his hand.

Still, it could be worse.

(Actually, scratch that. It is worse.)

So the plastic Centurion with the gun-hand shoots the love of his life and a Trickster Medicine Man puts her in a magic box that'll keep her safe for 2,000 years.

The plastic man could take a shortcut, skip the boring bits and meet the beautiful girl when she gets out of the box. But our hero is brave, and refuses to leave his love's side. (Well, his love's box-side).

And so, the Trickster Medicine Man takes the short road alone. The plastic Centurion faithfully guards the box, and stays away from fires and important historical events, just like he was told.

In the night, when he doesn't have to put a stoic mask on, he tells stories of the life he remembers living in a world without stars.

He tells the girl-in-the-box about the day he decided to become a Centurion, about all the battles he fought, about how he never ever forgot her.

He tells her that she haunted him in this false universe, about how he woke up with half-formed memories of red hair brushing his cheeks, hair that was softer than the furs he slept on. He remembers dreaming of the life that he could not remember, and the utter frustration he felt upon waking, when the clarity of dreams slipped through his fingers like water or sand.

He wishes he could have remembered her for longer, and in more detail than just the colour of her hair and the scent she carried on her skin. He wishes he could remember the sound of her laugh (he thinks it should sound like wind chimes - delicate notes spun across the air), the feel of her hand in his (soothing and cool, but firm and feeling like never letting go). But alas, all our brave man-boy hero has are the memories of her hair.

(Sometimes, he sees flashes of it in the corner of his eye when the blood of his enemies spills on the ground and runs down the blade of his sword – he doesn't want to remember those times. But he does.)

He is glad he wears her colours on his back. It reminds him of his purpose. Keep her safe until the Trickster Medicine Man can bring her back. Which he will, eventually. But it'll be a long wait. Get comfortable. Perhaps tonight he will dream of dancing firelight, or the scent of winter spice biscuits, or the feel of a spun sunset running through his fingers. Perhaps he'll remember in the morning. Or not.


End file.
